


Things You Said - Sherlock

by weeesi



Series: Things You Said [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Sexual Content, True Love, Tumblr Prompt, nonlinear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock figures it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. things you said at 1 am

**Author's Note:**

> I came across[ this post](http://xfactorera.tumblr.com/post/110395333021/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a) as it was being reblogged on Tumblr and thought I'd give it a try. There are 23 scenes, all 221 words long, and set at various points in their relationship. Sherlock's point of view, first person.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. 
> 
> xx  
> w

“Um, shrimp tempura?”

“Fine. And the dragon roll.”

“Sherlock, after the last time—”

“Dragon roll.”

You smile endearingly at the staff as you rattle off our order with practiced ease and slip off the paper sleeve around your chopsticks, crumpling it into a ball between your fingers. I sip my oolong tea and pretend that this is the most boring, dull, predictable night of my life while I watch you watch me. Your fingertips are exactly the right size and shape to roll paper into a perfectly round ball or pull out a tooth or press into a hole made by a bullet.

“So you’re eating tonight. How many days is it? Three? Four?”

You look coy. I consider letting the moment pass as you glance down at your handiwork. The printed characters are distorted, pressed into new meaning under the pressure of your hands. 

I should not identify with a chopsticks paper sleeve.

You look at me as the ball rolls across the table to rest at the edge of my empty plate.

“You’ve been counting.”

“When it comes to you.”

I swallow and pretend that wasn’t an important thing for you to say. 

The food comes and we eat the dragon roll and drink our oolong and talk about the case and you only bring her up once.


	2. things you said through your teeth

“ _Shut up, Sherlock_.”

You’re scrubbing a tea mug raw. Steam from the hot water tap drifts in the slanted afternoon light as you splash and slam unsuspecting mugs in and out of basin, onto the worktop, beads of water trickling down the sides of cabinets like sweat on a brow. 

I push back from studying the slides of streptococcus mutans and study the fine blond hairs on the back of your neck. What I will say next will aggravate you.

“I’m merely stating the obvious, John. Nearly forty percent of men your age have, at least once, experienced erectil—”

“I said, _shut. Up_.” You drop a mug. It slips back into water with a smug _splish_.

“She obviously isn’t worth dating if she’s going to be ridiculous about it.”

I nonchalantly go back to my microscope, busy adjusting the magnification settings, not too busy to notice the way you shift your weight so that your hips align with the angle of your shoulders. You still favour your leg when you’re upset. You never notice and I’ll never tell you. 

“We are not talking about this.” Your newly cleaned mug is placed next to mine, next to the tins of Earl Grey and Lemon, next to the electric kettle, next to where we leave things alone.

“Why not?”

“Just. Leave it.”

 


	3. things you said too quietly

“It wasn’t love.”

“No?”

“No.”

You’re calm. You don’t even sound uncomfortable. You sound like you’re reading off a medical chart or stating the final score of a match or listing the ingredients in a tin of cat food. You practiced this, then. We’re sitting side by side on the leather sofa in the sitting room a few days after it all happens. Maybe the telly is on, maybe it isn’t. Your knees are spread wide, the right one leaving a shallow indent in the muscles of my thigh. My fingers trace along the inseam of my trousers, wandering, leaving you a path if you’d like to take it.

I want you. You have no idea. 

“I was delusional. I thought I knew what I wanted.”

I’m listening.

“What I really wanted wasn’t an option. So she became the next best thing. But it was never love, you know. Real… love.”

You press your knee ever slightly deeper into my thigh as you say those words. I don’t think you realise that it feels like a promise.

I don’t know what to say.

After a moment, the sofa groans as you stand, stretch, and slowly climb the stairs up to your room. I hear the door close after a pause. 

(Was that a clue?)

Oh, the telly _is_ on. Manchester scores.


	4. things you said over the phone

“Sorry it’s late.”

“No I was—”

“—awake, I figured.”

I can hear you breathing. You mouth is too close to the speaker. The air coming into and out of your lungs scratches at the insides of my ears as you inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

“So.”

“Sorry, yes.”

You’re nervous.

(Why? It’s only me.)

“I’m, uh. Well, Mike and Greg took off already and I wondered if you’d. I’m an idiot and thought I had another twenty—”

You’ve had approximately four pints of beer. Bitter. Your favourite. I know exactly what your breath smells like and how dilated your pupils are and how your left eye starts to crinkle at the corner a little bit more than your right once you’ve passed three pints. You’re standing outside the noisy pub, your shoulders hunched to your ears, black jacket zipped to your chin as people passing on the pavement give you a once over. Your hair glows golden grey under the neon signs. You didn’t shave this morning. You haven’t been sleeping.

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Sorry, Sherlock. Uh. Thanks.”

I shed my dressing gown and pull my coat on over my shirt. My thumb hovers over the button to ring off as you clear your throat.

“I’m glad you answered.”

“I’m glad you called.”


	5. things you didn’t say at all

The knife blade slashes a little deeper than either of us anticipates. We stare at each other for a moment and then you act, tearing my sleeve into two long strips, a whole into halves. You press firmly into my skin, blood staining your fingernails, carving crescent moons into me.

You are silent while you work. You are a doctor. An army doctor and a very good one.

By now I am sitting on the kerb, legs crossed beneath me. You are kneeling by my side and frowning, although you know the wound has turned out to be superficial and I know it too but we’re both pretending. That’s what I do sometimes. Pretend. I think sometimes you do as well.

The knife is small but conspicuous, leather grip, steel blade, exposed and abandoned on the ground some thirty metres from us in the middle of the deserted street. The thief got away.

(They tend to get away when I’m injured. You just give up, then.)

You are still silent. I accept that. I respect silence.

A police car turns the corner, sirens off as usual, Lestrade visible behind the windscreen. He’s done this before. We’ve done this before.

Your hands never tremble.

There are things you will never say to me and there are things you are saying right now.


	6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

“This isn’t too bad, actually.” 

A kaleidoscope of starlight spins over the lines of your face as I turn my head to look at you. Orion reflects in your pupils, open wide to the sky as you cross your legs at your ankles and crisscross your fingers behind your head. We’re on our backs, on a stakeout.

We must look like lovers, I tell you, so no one suspects us. On this blanket. Now.

The worst part is, we’re not on a stakeout. Well, we were.

(I saw them an hour ago. You were spreading the blanket on the grass).

The best part is, you’ve agreed with no questions, as usual.

“You know, I’ve never done this.”

“Done what?”

“Looked at the stars from a blanket in the grass.”

“Why bother in London. You’d never see this many.”

You make a small noise in your throat that affirms me. Somehow everything you do affirms me.

“It’s always something with you, Sherlock.” You whisper the words.

“Hm?”

“Something new.”

A couple comes into view at the end of the park, walking aimlessly as they murmur in low voices.

“Quick.”

You uncross your fingers under your head and grab my hand in yours, pulling it back to your chest. I can feel your heartbeat beneath my palm. It’s steady. Slow.

Mine is racing.


	7. things you said while we were driving

“Turn here.”

“I’m perfectly capable of reading signs. In fact, I _can_ actually read. Were you aware of this? It’s amazing, I know.”

I can’t help it. My mouth quirks up at the corner. You’re in a surprisingly good mood. It’s our first case since…

Well.

You turn and speed up a bit, just for good measure. The client’s house is ahead of us at the end of the lane. Red farmhouse, late nineteenth century, family owned for generations. Client has found some suspicious messages carved into fence posts on the property.

Dull. But: a case away from London, with you. Not Dull.

We’ll be staying in their guest lodgings, a small cabin in the back with only one room and one bed. You know this and I know this.

You clear your throat. This means something’s coming.

“Sherlock, about the sleeping arrangements.”

“Hm.” I study a blur of feathers alongside the road. Chickens.

“You have the bed. I’ll kip on the floor. I was in the army, remember?”

“It’s unlikely that I’ll sleep, John. I’m on a case, remember?”

I smile at you so that you know it didn’t hurt. I look back to the chickens.

“Well, just in case.”

“Fine. Good.”

It’s not fine or good. When will I stop lying?

“Just thought we ought to clear that up.”


	8. things you said when you were crying

“You’re not supposed to see me like this.”

You’re sitting on your bed, phone in hand, _Harry Watson From Clara xxx_ , as you wipe your face with your fingers. All the lights are off, the moonlight turning you into grey shadows.

I stand in the doorway. “They called again. A&E?”

“Yeah. She’ll be kept overnight. I’ll go tomorrow.”

Your shoulders are curved like parentheses. You’re carrying something that I’ve seen Mycroft carry.

The sibling of an addict, trying to love.

“Every time I see that number, I think, this is it. How many times…”

“John.” I don’t know what to say, exactly. Now is not the best time to tell you that the reason I know Lestrade is because he happened to be arresting my dealer just as I was overdosing.

“Sherlock. Promise me.”

You don’t say the rest. I don’t want you to need to.

I move and sit down, tentatively, beside you on the bed. You wipe the last few tears away. I want to kiss them off your face.

“Whatever you want…” I start.

“That’s alright.” You try to shrug off the parentheses.

In the morning, after you stand by your sister’s bedside and wonder when it will be her grave, I will meet you at a crime scene and say four things that will make you laugh.


	9. things you said when i was crying

Your lips are blue.

You are not dead or dying.

I’m finishing you out of the Thames and breathing into your lungs and collapsing into a soggy mess beside you because I can’t remember what else to do with my body. You choke after a while and spit out a mouthful of water, your chest heaving like its broken.

You’re in hospital now. They took you away when we arrived and I nearly lost it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Now you’re in bed and I’m walking into your room and the nurse is saying something that you would probably agree is important but frankly nothing else exists for me besides seeing you alive in that bed.

You’re in-between sleeping and awake. I fold myself into the plastic chair beside you and stare at your face. It takes me four minutes to realise that I’m crying.

“Hey,” you say in a slow voice. “What’s that for?”

“Your lips are blue.”

“Won’t be for long.” You’re shivering. I pull the blanket up to your chin. One of my tears drops onto your chest, marking you.

“Hey,” you say again, softly. “Come here.” You circle a hand around my wrist and pull me to your side, reaching up with your other hand to thumb away the moisture underneath my right eye.


	10. things you said that made me feel like shit

“You wouldn’t know.” You switch off the telly, banging the remote on the table as you place another forkful of rice noodles into your mouth.

“I wouldn’t?”

“No, you wouldn’t, because you’re not—you don’t care, Sherlock.” You pause to chew. “You don’t care about people. All you care about is being clever and being better than everyone else.”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong!? See, that’s exactly it.”

“I care about you, John.” It comes out sounding pathetic and small.

“Right. Right.” You swallow. “So that’s why you left me at the crime scene again yesterday after I deliberately asked you to wait. That’s why you forget that I’m even in the same room as you. That’s why I’ve always got to pay for cabs and pick up the shopping and force you to eat something every few days so that you don’t drop dead. Yeah. That’s _you_ caring about _me_ , isn’t it.”

I’m trying not to, I really am, but I’m going to make a mistake—

“At least I let you.”

You slam the door as you leave for good measure.

Oh, John. You’re probably telling me off as you march through the streets of London like a soldier without his orders.

No one hates me as much as me.

For being a genius, I am a fool when it comes to you.


	11. things you said when you were drunk

“Sss’op it.”

“John. You stop it.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk.”

You erupt into laughter, your breathy, chest-deep laugh that always does unfortunate things to my, um... in my pants.

“Know what?” It’s well after midnight and we’re tucked into our chairs, burrowed into 221B like animals hibernating in winter. I’ve lit a fire after you tried and failed to start it using some newspaper and a Gilson pipette you found stuffed under a cushion.

“What,” I say, as you lurch forward, the low light highlighting the curves of your body. You fall between my legs and give me a particularly conspiratorial look.

“Last time. My stag. When I touched you—your—here,” you say, placing your hand back onto my knee. You lean up to whisper into my ear and press your chest against my shoulder, against my chest. You’re small and perfect and I want you so badly that sometimes I feel that, were I ever given the chance, I would consume you.

Your breath is hot and bourbon and a slow, sweet death.

“Hm.”

(What is happening?)

“I was, y’know. Seeing what would happen.” Your bottom lip brushes one of my curls. I can feel you between my legs, pressed onto my body.

Oh my god. You’re… you have a—

“What would happen… if what, John?”

“If you knew.”


	12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

Your cock is still nestled in the palm of my hand, soft now, warm skin pressing into me. I feel your pulse in the most intimate part of you, a part that no one touches without your permission. You gave me permission 267 days ago and I’ve touched you at least 267 times since then.

(Actually, 402 times.)

I’m quiet. My breathing is slow, shallow, measured. Closed eyes and counting heartbeats, your cock pulsing soft, tucked into my hand. You’re about to make a guess and you’re wrong.

“Sleeping?”

I barely nuzzle my nose into your arm. You think I am asleep and I let you believe it. You lower your voice and brush a finger over the curve of my ear as you tuck your toes between my calves.

“I lied,” you whisper.

I am motionless.

“I told her she was the best thing that possibly could have happened.” Your voice hums through your body, into your cock, into my hand. You into me. You sigh. “She wasn’t.”

Oh, John. Sometimes you’re so— 

You roll onto your back, thinking now.

“Although I suppose she was, in a way. Because otherwise I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

The next time I make love to you I will make certain that you never need to think that sentence again.


	13. things you said at the kitchen table

“Er, Sherlock.”

“Hm.” Clostridium botulinum _was_ present in the wound. I slip the slide under the lens.

“Sherlock.”

“What,” I say, refusing to look up. You think I’m in a strop because you didn’t come home last night (instead it was dreadful Lisa or whatever her name is… Liesl? Lisette? and I know you didn’t have sex with her because of your right knee but don’t bother asking me how I know that because I can read your body like a map, John, and no one else ever bothers to discover you.)

I’m in a strop because I’m disgusting and in love. With you, that is.

“Sherlock, please.” You’ve put down your egg spoon. You are still trying which always makes me want to try.

Mostly.

I look up and meet your eyes.

“Look, last night. Sorry if you were waiting—”

“Forget it, John. Didn’t even notice you weren’t here.” I roll my eyes for good measure.

(I sat in your chair in the dark last night. I lasted three minutes, breathing in the scent of you, before I fled to my room.)

“Well, anyway. Thought we might do that Bond night tonight.” You nonchalantly pick up your spoon again and go back to reading the Guardian.

“Fine.” I swallow. “Good,” I say, as I go back to my microscope.


	14. things you said after you kissed me

“I’ve just fucked up a lot of things, haven’t I. Like, everything. Possibly.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. That was way out of line and I have no idea—”

“John, you’re ruining the moment.” 

“—if you even want…. What?”

“I said, you’re ruining the moment.”

“Sorry, what?”

We’re in an alley somewhere in East London. It’s raining. I’m not going to remember anything else about our surroundings because all I’m going to remember about this moment and this day and this week and this month, even, when I think back to it years and years and years from now, is the way you looked at me before you kissed me for the first time.

“Do it again, John.” 

“What, kiss—” 

I press our lips together and you press our bodies together. We figure out the rest, now and later.

I have a strange feeling in my chest, deep behind my ribs. It’s like the time when I was five years old and was stung on my index finger by a bee while in my parents’ garden. I had wanted to cry _so badly_ but I couldn’t, I didn’t, because emotions were things that hurt you just as much as bee stings did and crying didn’t make them heal any faster.

You stung me, John, and you let me cry.


	15. things you said with too many miles between us

8:37pm

_Lestrade texted. Two victims, initially suspected drowning, found nude on Thames bank. Nothing in lungs. Meet me at NSY in thirty minutes? SH_

8:39pm

Sorry, don’t think I’ll make it tonight. Mary’s having people over.

8:40pm

I mean, we. We’re having people over.

9:00pm

Everyone’s arriving and I’m miserable.

9:25pm

Text me something about the case?

9:40pm

_Anderson’s an idiot. SH_

9:42pm

Someone’s missed his calling as a comedian.

9:43pm

_Oh, you meant about the victims. Petechial haemorrhaging, tongues are missing. Murdered, obviously._

9:45pm

Yikes. But the Anderson comment, thanks. That gave me a laugh.

10:00pm

Sherlock?

10:13pm

Right. Better get back to the party. Can only hide in the loo for so long before someone starts thinking I’ve got food poisoning or am having a wank.

10:14pm

Which I am not doing, by the way.

10:14pm

 Wanking.

10:15pm

Ok so I’ll text you tomorrow. 

12:02am

Everyone’s finally left. Christ, it was boring. I’m sorry but Mary’s got some dull friends. _Extremely dull_ , by your standards.

12:34am

Can’t sleep. Were there contusions alongside the petechial haemorrhaging?

12:36am

Never mind. You’re probably busy.

12:40am

I would be there with you if I could.

12:42am

I’m an idiot – I’ll just come now. Where are you?

1:00am

Left a msg for Mary. Back at NSY?

1:09am

_Baker Street. SH_

1:10am

See you soon.


	16. things you said with no space between us

“Oh my _god_.”

“Good?”

“That’s… good. Oh ffffff _uck_ , Sher—”

It’s a July night. The air is hot and close and heavy above us. Beads of sweat are springing from my skin and running down my back, my shins pressing into the bed, the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tensing under my body as you thrust up into me. You are flushed cheeks and swollen lips and wide eyes and everything I ever wanted and more than anything I ever thought you’d give me. I lean down over you and box your head between my arms.

 _Careful._

You place your hands on my arse. I roll my hips against your rhythm.

“You know—the first time—I thought about this?” You say, your question punctuated by the sounds of your cock moving inside me.

“When?”

“Years ago."

“And?”

“You know the rest.”

You press a kiss to the underside of my jaw.

“Tell me again.”

“And I thought about it for years.”

“And.”

“And I never knew.”

“I know.”

“And I would go up to—ah, _fuck that’s good_ —my room when you’d be sleeping on the sofa and—I’d touch myself and pretend— _uuuhhhhhh_ —that it was—that you were—”

I’m wrapping my fist around myself.

“That I was doing this for you?” You love to watch me.


	17. things you said that i wish you hadn’t

“He did, you know. Baker Street, behind closed curtains. Mrs. Hudson came in one time. Don’t know how those rumours started.”

You float away in her arms, laughing.

Don’t ever fall in love.

It makes you do things like plan weddings and chat on park benches and compose love songs but for the wrong two people instead of focusing on the work, the work, the work.

I just wanted you back. I wanted you in my life again.

I was willing to do anything, turns out.

I spot you through the windows. The song’s ended and you’re standing together, talking to some guests, her arm draped across your shoulders. You won’t notice that I’ve left your wedding early until much later. Possibly never.

She will. She’s more observant than you.

I catch a cab back to Baker Street.

There, I’ll sit behind closed curtains and remember the feel of you under my hands. How you stepped on my feet and pressed your fingers gently into my waist. How I played a recording of the theme from _Romeo and Juliet_ and you had no idea. You thought it was a waltz. 

I won’t see you for a month. You’ll go on your sex holiday and I’ll start using again.

I’ll tell myself it’s not because of you, or rumours, or closed curtains.


	18. things you said when you were scared

It hurts. It does. I can admit it.

“Who shot him?”

Oh, John. 

I wish I could tell you right now, have it out and over with, but I’m bleeding internally with a bullet plugging a hole in my heart and I can’t seem to think of any words. I sense you kneeling by me. I can smell the faint tang of your sweat and adrenaline that I’ve come to love.

Your face is… blurred.

If I die, I’ll miss your face. I will.

Your fingers on my cheek. Your ear by my mouth. Checking, the doctor, the army doctor, it’s what you are, what you do.

 _Compartmentalise_.

I’ll never know your mouth, I’ve just realised.

“Sherlock, we’re losing you.”

You call 999.

(You do.)

I’m put into the back of an ambulance. I can smell you with me still. The wound is exposed now and my eyes won’t stay open for much longer. You can see blood spilling out of the core of me, my blood, my secret, what keeps me alive and loving you in silence.

I almost want to tell you, sometimes.

If I die, I’ll miss the way you lick your lips.

I think I’m going to die, John.

If I die, I’ll miss you.

If I die, I’ll miss you.

If I die, I’ll miss you.


	19. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

My chest is burning from laughing. You’re making me snort like an idiot (which I hate and you seem to love making me do). My eyes are blurring over with tears. Even my thoughts are incoherent because of you.

We’re on our sides, in our bed. We’re not having sex, we’re not even touching. We’re curled up into s-shapes, bodies aligned to mirror each other into love patterns. I want to remember this. I want to carve this into my heart.

If I were to choose how to die, I would choose here in 221B, here in this bed, with you, laughing. 

The probability is low, but one can dream.

We calm, and still, and quiet ourselves.

“So then. It was the right choice?” Your eyes drift open and closed like the tides.

“Choice?”

“Me, I mean.”

“I never had a choice, John.”

“No.”

You’re quiet for a few moments.

“Sometimes I wish I could go back, you know. Change things. Change what I did.”

“Hm.”

You reach for my hand, wrapping yours inside of it between us.

“But now I have you. And you have me.”

I kiss the knuckle of your ring finger.

(I love you. I’ll love you until I die in this bed and then I’ll love you after.)

We fall asleep breathing each other’s recycled air.


	20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

It’s late. (Or early?) Baker Street is a quiet hum beneath the dreary grey dome of London sky. No snow, yet. For the last few hours I’ve been pretending to sleep to make you happy, stretched out on the sofa. I’ve even strategically placed a foot dangling off the side for good measure. Now you are actually sleeping, slumped in your chair, the blanket originally thrown over your legs curled like a cat at your feet.

I peek an eye open to look at you. You are beautiful.

A car alarm starts blaring from the street below. My eye snaps shut. Within moments you stir, blinking and rubbing your eyes with your hands, kicking at the blanket with your toes.

“Bloody hell. What time is it?” You glance at your watch.

You sigh.

I’m still asleep, remember? I must look convincing. Well. Convincing enough to convince you.

Quietly, you stand, roll your shoulders back, shuffle over to the window to investigate. Four cars down, the blue one, on the right. A woman’s fumbling with her keys. You’re going to go help her turn off the alarm. Keep me asleep. You sigh again, pass me by on the way to grab your coat.

“The things I do for you, Sherlock.”

I am as silent as a tomb. I am asleep.

“I do love you, you know.”

I know, John. It’s the only thing I’ve ever heard you say.


	21. things you said when we were on top of the world

**“** You have officially lost your mind.”

“Oh please.”

“You’ve gone fucking mad, Sherlock.”

“You want to as much as I do.” I lick my lips. Your pupils explode.

“Five minutes.”

I tinker with the soap (imitation pine-scented, revolting) in the plane's loo while I wait for you. The two-hour flight to Berlin is one we’ve made several times over the last few months. For a case, of course.

And a sex holiday.

The door protests, then opens, and you squeeze yourself into the tiny space, pressing against my chest. Your breath is biscuits and cheap coffee and I kiss the last of it out of you. My flies are down and your flies are down and my hand brushes yours and your hand’s on my arse and I’m holding your cock and your mouth’s on my neck and you’re up against the door and my tongue’s in your mouth and you come and I come and we hold each other, breathing and breathing and breathing and breathing.

I zip you up.

I leave first.

You leave two minutes later.

It’s obvious what we’ve done.

“When we land.”

“First thing.”

The flight attendant asks you if you’d like some more coffee.

“Yes, ta. And some for my husband as well, please.”

You smile.

When we land in Berlin, you take me apart.


	22. things you said after it was over

“I’ve left the keys under her mat, I dunno where she went—”

“Visiting Mrs. Hudson, remember?”

“Ah, right.”

You push my reading spectacles up my nose. They slide down because I’m too stubborn to have them fixed and you obligingly push them up. I pretend to hate it.

You grasp my hand at the bottom of the seventeen steps to 221B. Over twenty years here. It’s more than either of us. It’s not mine or yours. It was ours.

We take a reverent moment in silence. It feels like a death and sacred spaces need offerings. Independently, we each place a hand on the wall, feeling the thin paper, worn from running out at all hours of the night for the promise of a good chase and Chinese takeaway. The hall echoes with us.

We already said goodbye to the flat.

We are headed to Sussex Downs.

You turn to me. I love every wrinkle on your face.

“We’ll be back, of course.”

“Of course, John.”

“London’ll be overrun with criminals in no time, us away like this.”

“Surely.” I wink at you. You wink back.

We move toward the door. Before we step over the threshold into our beloved London, you squeeze my hand.

“I would have been lost without you,” you say.

“I would be still,” I answer.


	23. things you said [when it was just beginning]

We’re at Angelo’s when we agree to spend the rest of our lives together. You order the pasta. I order the gnocchi that you saw me eat once and now believe is my favourite.

(I’m actually quite ambivalent about gnocchi. I’m ambivalent about most things that don’t involve you or crime.)

Angelo has brought us a candle.

“You remember that first case? The pink case or pink lady or whatever?”

“It’s still on your blog, John.”

“We came here on a stakeout and I had that bloody cane…”

“Yes..?”

“Was thinking about what I asked you that night, over dinner. Well, _my_ dinner. You didn’t eat.”

“You asked me if I had a girlfriend.”

“Or a boyfriend.”

“And I said—”

“—that you were married to your work and _really_ not interested—”

“Tried to let you down easy.” I give you your second favourite smile. “I actually found you incredibly attractive and wanked to the thought of you that very night.”

Your mouth drops open. Haven’t managed that in a while.

“ _Really_.”

“No.” My smile is in my eyes now, your very favourite. “But it wasn’t long after.”

“Still married to your work?" 

“I can make some adjustments.”

“Would being married to me be a good adjustment?”

You, John Hamish Watson, are the meaning of my life.

“The best.”


End file.
